Clint Catches a Spider
by Browncoats and Floral Bonnets
Summary: Or, the one where Peter has a fever. Clint finds a teenaged vigilante on his roof. It goes about as well is things usually go for the most accident-prone Avenger. Rating for language.


xxx

Clint Barton is much less recognizable than, well, any of the other Avengers, and that's the way he likes it. He rarely (never) gets recognized on the streets, and he doesn't get roped into press conferences or recording stupid videos for all the high schools in the country. Not that being recognized as a superhero wouldn't have its perks. He, Nat, and Steve went out for lunch one time after a long morning of scouring intel for anything that was actually intelligent and a guy honest-to-god turned himself in to Steve for smoking weed because, "It's one thing to be high in front of my parents and lie about it, it's impossible to do that when Captain fucking-er, _flipping_ -America is staring you down." Steve had very kindly explained that he hadn't been staring him down, and that marijuana was well outside his jurisdiction and that he would let him off with a warning this time but he better not smoke weed again. The kid had left _actually_ weeping.

It was that sort of notoriety-the kind where people knew you were a superhero and were less inclined to commit crime in your presence because of it-that Clint sort of wishes he had right now, as he stares down the barrel of a gun in the convenience store down the street. Because it would be easier if the two amateur robbers would just say, "Oh shit, it's Hawkeye!" and drop their guns and wait patiently for the cops to arrive.

But, if Clint has learned anything in his life, it's that nothing for him is ever easy.

"Look," Clint says, maintaining steady eye-contact with the ski-masked man before him.

"Don't talk!" the man cries.

Clint sighs, then lunges forward, making quick work of disarming the man. He points the confiscated gun at the other robber, and is about to tell her to _drop the weapon!_ when her gun...flies (?) out of her hand.

"What the hell?" Clint says, trying to understand what he just saw. Clint, the robbers, and the employee behind the front counter all turn to the door. "What the _hell_?" Clint repeats, and can't contain a startled laugh.

In the doorway is a skinny person wearing blue sweatpants and a red and blue sweatshirt and a red mask over his face and _goggles_? And he's holding the gun, away from him as if he's not quite (or at all) comfortable handling the thing, and Clint isn't sure how the gun got into the sweatsuit guy's hand but he really hopes that the weirdo isn't telekinetic because he _cannot_ deal with that today.

"What's up guys!" the sweatsuit person says in a voice that can only be described as prepubescent.

It's a futzing _kid._

"Look, kid," Clint says. "Why don't you-"

Before he can finish, the kid signs _I love you_ upside-down with both fingerless-glove-clad hands and there's a _thwip_ sound and suddenly both robbers are wrapped in a white substance that appears to be...spider web.

What.

The.

 _Hell._

"What the hell is that? Who the hell are you?" Clint says.

"I'm Spider-Man, and _that_ is my self-designed webbing-patent pending! Naw, I'm just kidding. Hey, if you don't mind calling the police, I've got other crimes to stop."

"What're you doing with that gun?" Clint asks.

Spider-Kid (cus he is sure as shit not a man) looks at it as if he'd forgotten he even had it. "Oh! Uh…"

"You know that's evidence right? Give it to me and I'll make sure it gets to the police."

Spider-Kid narrows his eyes (which, how the futz). Clint sighs.

"Look. Kid. I'm an Avenger."

The kid's goggle-eye-things widen. "Whoa, you're Iron Fist!"

"Oh for-no! I'm not Iron Fist! I'm Hawkeye."

"The one with the wings?" the kids asks. Then, to himself he mutters, "I thought he was black."

Clint closes his eyes and sighs. "That's _Falcon_. I'm the one with the bow and arrow."

"Oooh. Black Widow's sidekick. Look, it's not that I don't trust you, but I'm just gonna…" He uses his webbing to snatch the gun from Clint's hand, then sticks both weapons to the front of the counter. "Tell the police it'll dissolve in a few hours."

Clint watches him go, jaw hanging open. He's seen a lot of weird shit, but there's something about this-a kid in sweats shooting webs at bad guys-that's even weirder than aliens.

"You really an Avenger?" the guy behind the counter asks, breaking his train of thought.

Clint closes his mouth and looks at him and nods. "Yup."

"Can you get my kid an autograph?"

"Of course," Clint says with a smile.

The guy frowns. "You didn't let me finish. Can you get my kid an autograph from Captain America?"

Clint's shoulders slump.

Typical.

xxx _Two Weeks Later_

"Hey, Clint!"

Clint turns to see Aimee jogging toward him and smiles at the sight of his neighbor. "Hey, Aimee. How's it goin'?"

She points up and says, slightly out of breath, "There's some guy in colorful pajamas on the roof."

Clint blinks. "Huh?"

"Yeah, he kinda looks like one of the Avengers, but like...low budget."

"Like...cosplay?" Clint asks.

Aimee looks surprised at his use of the word _cosplay_ , then shrugs. "I dunno. If it is cosplay it's really shitty."

"Huh," Clint says, suspicion creeping in as he wonders who the hell is on the roof. "Thanks, Aimee. I'll go check it out."

He stops by his apartment first, grabs a bow and full quiver just in case, and heads for the stairwell. He takes the steps two at a time, mind racing as he tries to think of any reason an Avenger fan would be on his rooftop unannounced. He can't think of any that seem likely, and he's concerned that there's someone up there waiting to kick his ass. He's made a lot of enemies and he can picture several of them donning some sort of gimmicky outfit to come fight him.

The thought makes him sigh.

He does not want to deal with this right now. He doesn't want to deal with it ever, but especially not now, when he was about to binge _Dog Cops_ and when it's over a hundred degrees out. He'll try and make it quick-arrow to the guy's knee, then call the police or Stark depending on the category of villain. Then it's back to his couch. He bursts onto the roof, draws an arrow before he's even spotted the stranger.

And then he lowers his bow and puts the arrow back in his quiver.

He should've known.

"You again?"

It's the kid from the corner store, sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall with his legs splayed out in front of him. He sits up a little when Clint appears. "Oh, hey! Wow, you really are Hawkeye. Thanks for not shooting me, Mr. Hawkeye! What're you doing here?"

Clint is so busy staring at the kid that he almost doesn't hear the question. "I live here."

"Whoa, no way!"

"Own the building actually," Clint mutters as he looks around for signs of a fight, or people burritoed in spider web. "There weren't any, like…" He gestures vaguely with his bow. "...bad guys up here, right? No Russians in tracksuits or anything like that?"

"Uuuh, no." The kid looks around, and with his stupid outfit and his comically fast and jerky movements, he looks just like an old cartoon character. He turns back to Clint. "Not that I can see."

"Then what are you doing on my roof?"

The kid snorts.

"What?"

"Nothing! Just, uh, you kind of sound like Shrek." He takes on a deep voice and a weird accent and says, " _What! Are you doing! In my swamp!_ "

Clint stares. "What the hell accent was that supposed to be?" he finally says.

"...Scottish?"

Clint stares at him some more.

"...That bad?" the kid says. Then, "Sorry, I'll go home now. I was just taking a, a little breather. It's hot out here." He goes to stand, and immediately his twiggy adolescent legs fold beneath him and he lands on his ass. A high giggle erupts from him and that sounds half embarrassed and half panicked.

"You okay?" Clint asks.

"I'm fine!" His voice is shrill and unconvincing. "Just, uh...Just a little dizzy, that's all." He stands again, and manages to stay on his feet-barely. He's bent at the middle and has a death grip on the edge of the low wall and looks about as steady as Bambi on the frozen lake).

"Where's home?" Clint says. As much as he would rather not be, he's actually starting to get worried about the weird teenager.

"Queens."

Clint sighs inwardly. Then he sighs outwardly. Queens is a long way from Brooklyn, especially in this heat "Alright, kid. Come on, I've got A/C and I'll get you a cold drink-."

"I don't drink!" the kid squeaks.

"Of _water_!" Clint cries. "I'm an Avenger, you think I go around giving alcohol to minors?"

"No?"

"Rhetorical question," Clint says, and holds his hand out to the Spider-Kid. The kid reluctantly takes it, and Clint is surprised at the strength of his grip. He pulls him up, then loops the kid's arm around his shoulders, and slips his own arm around the kid's bony waist.

"I'm fine," the kid says, sounding anything but fine.

"Clearly."

"I can _walk_ ," the kid insists, and then proceeds to trip on nothing but air, almost falling except that Clint's got a good grip on him. He lets out that nervous, high laugh again.

"You're not concussed, are you?" Clint says as they make their way to the door.

"I mean, my brain feels a little funny, like there's a layer of bubble wrap around it or something, but I didn't hit my head. Unless I did and I don't remember it. But my head doesn't hurt so I'm pretty sure that's not the case. Although I _did_ hit my head on the ceiling the other day…"

The kid continues with the ceaseless chatter all the way to Clint's apartment. Clint closes and locks the door behind them, then deposits the kid on the couch before crossing his arms over his chest.

"Alright, kid. Mask off."

Much to his surprise, the kid doesn't argue, instead reaching up and pulling his mask forward and off, muttering something about _burning up in there anyway_. Clint stares at the mussed up, sweaty hair, the big brown eyes, the freckles, and swears loudly.

"What are you, twelve?!"

"Fourteen!" the kid cries indignantly, as if fourteen is any better than twelve.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Hawkeye. Could I maybe get that cold drink of water you were talking about, please?"

Clint blinks. He'd forgotten he made the offer. "Yeah. Just-stay right there. Don't move."

He goes to the kitchen and takes down a glass, then turns on the tap. He sticks a pinkie in the flow, waiting for it to get cold before he fills the glass, thinking the whole time how weird it is to be doing such a normal task when there's a teenaged superhero on his couch. He goes back into the living room and deposits it in the kid's hand before taking a seat on the IKEA coffee table Nat had insisted he buy.

"What's your name?"

The finishes chugging the water, then says, "I told you. Spider-Man."

"Not what I meant."

The kid eyes him uncertainly. Clint rolls his eyes.

"Kid, how many time do I have to remind you, I'm an _Avenger_.Your secret's safe with me."

Spider-Kid sighs. "Peter."

"Peter," Clint repeats. "Peter what?"

"...Parker."

"Peter Parker. Your mom know you're some sort of vigilante, Peter Parker?"

"No one knows. Can I get a refill please?"

Clint takes the glass from Peter's outstretched hand and takes it to the sink and fills it up. He grabs a banana on his way out of the kitchen, since a) he's pretty sure he saw a movie one time where they saved a sick kid by feeding him a banana and b) Kate brought him a bunch of bananas and there's no way in hell he's eating them because bananas are disgusting.

"Here," he says.

Peter takes the water and the banana. He's quiet, and Clint notices for the first time how flushed his cheeks are, his eyebrows knit together and his lips pulled down into a pout.

"What's going on with you?" Clint asks, hoping the water and banana will fix it.

"I feel a little off, that all," he says.

Clint responds by leaning forward and pressing his hand against Peter's forehead, and is shocked at the heat beneath his skin. "Holy shit, you're burning up."

"Huh," Peter murmurs. "I didn't think that could happen."

Clint has no idea what that means, but he does know that Peter Parker, Spider-Kid has a high fucking fever. "Look, I think you should see a doctor."

"No! No. Dressed like this? No way! I'm fine."

"You are not fine."

Peter scoots to the front of the couch, clearly getting ready to stand. "Thank you for the banana Mr. Hawkeye, but I-" As he straightens up, his expression grows grave, almost frightened, and his lids flutter as he puts the palm of one hand on his forehead, pushing long fingers into his hair. "Whoa." His eyes roll back at the same time that knees buckle, and Clint lunges forward, catching the kid with one arm and barely keeping him from taking a nosedive into the coffee table.

"Peter?" he says, lowering the limp teenager back onto the couch. "Hey, Peter?" He taps the kid face but there's no response.

"Oh shit."

This is _just_ what he needs. A kid dying on his couch. Part of him wants to take him to the hospital but he doesn't have a car and it would probably take an ambulance awhile to get here and besides, the country doesn't treat vigilantes with much kindness. If anyone recognized the kid as such, he could be in real trouble.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls down to the number Tony had insisted putting there after the alien invasion for just this kind of situation.

Well maybe not, _just_ this situation. It's a bit of a weird-ass situation.

He presses dial and waits.

" _This is West Elm Clinic, how can I direct your call?"_

"Codeword _group hug_ ," Clint says.

" _Identification?"_

Clint sighs. "Katniss."

" _Thank you. Your call will be redirected shortly."_

The line goes silent for a few seconds before there's a click and a gruff voice says, " _Barton? Do you have any idea what time it is here?"_

"Doc, I don't even know what here is. Look, I've got a situation. There's a kid passed out on my couch with a really high fever. He just lost consciousness and I couldn't wake him up and I don't know what to do. Should I call an ambulance?"

" _Does he have any injuries?"_

"No, just the fever. Wasn't complaining about any other symptoms, either."

" _What's the weather like there?"_

"Hot."

" _Like really hot?"_

"Over a hundred. And he's been running around in a sweat suit."

Stan, the military doctor that Tony somehow managed to wrangle into being the on-call medical consultant for the Avengers, says, " _Well shit."_

Which makes Clint say, "'Well shit?' Well shit what? Stan, don't tell me I've got a dead kid on my couch!"

" _It sounds like a bad case of heat exhaustion. You don't have time for an ambulance, he could stroke out before help arrives. Do you have ice in your freezer?"_

Clint's mind is running the phrase _stroke out_ over and over when Stan barks in his ear.

" _Barton! You need to focus here. Do you have ice?"_

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. What do I do?"

" _Put ice in sandwich bags and put them at his neck, armpits, and upper inner thighs. Got it?"_

Clint is already rushing to his kitchen. "Okay. Then what?"

" _You have a bathtub?"_

"Uh huh," Clint says, head bent to hold his phone between his ear and his shoulder so that he can get the ice out of the freezer.

" _After you put the ice around him, draw a lukewarm bath. Not too cold, got it?"_

"Lukewarm. Got it."

" _Then put him in the tub once it's full. It should bring his body temp back down to a safe level after a few minutes...You mind if I ask you a question?"_

Clint bundles the bag of ice into his arm that doesn't have a phone balanced on the shoulder. "Can it wait?"

" _Why is there a sick teenager on your couch?"_

Clint heads back to the living room."It's a long story."

" _Then shorten it. You know Tony wants me to tell him whenever you guys-"_

"Don't bring Tony into this, please Stan." Clint tries not to sound desperate. "You know how he is. Look, the kid's a vigilante. I found him on my roof looking pathetic and took pity on him. Are you really gonna tell Stark?"

Stan sighs. " _Do what I told you and then call me back. If it works and the kid's temp comes down, I'll consider keeping this between us. But if he gets worse, you've got to call him."_

"K. Thanks, Stan." He hangs up and shoves his phone in his back pocket and turns his full attention to Peter Parker, Spider-Man, where he's slumped on the couch. "Okay, Pete, you're gonna be okay," Clint says, shifting the upper half of Peter's body into a lying position before lifting the kid's lanky legs onto the couch. He's practically radiating heat, and Clint moves quickly following Stan's directions. Ice at the neck, ice in the armpits, ice in the upper inner thighs.

Peter doesn't respond much to the sudden coolness, other than to let out a small groan when it comes in contact with the inside of his legs. Clint is somewhat reluctant to leave him alone again for any amount of time, but he's got to get the bath going. He lingers next to the couch, staring at the kid that, for some reason, reminds him of a certain teenaged archer he knows.

"You better not die, you little bastard," he mutters, then heads off to the bathroom. He gets the tub running, turning the temperature to what he thinks (hopes) is lukewarm and plugging it so it'll fill up. He watches the tub fill for all of thirty seconds before his nerves have him back on his feet, wandering out of the bathroom and back to the living room. There's a slight moment of panic when his eyes land on the unconscious Peter, but it quickly subsides when he notices the kid's chest rising and falling.

"What the hell are you doing stopping armed robberies?" he asks aloud despite knowing he's not gonna get an answer.

Too nervous to stand still, Clint paces the small living room, wondering what circumstances led to a fourteen year old boy swinging around New York City on homemade spider-webs. He's starting to wonder if he's wearing a groove in the floor when he remembers the bathtub filling with water and, swearing, books it to the bathroom. He gets there just in time; the water is barely below the top edge of the tub and he turns the knobs just in time to keep it from overflowing.

"Lukewarm tub," he says, swishing a hand in the water to make sure it's the right temperature. Satisfied, he goes once more to the living room. "Alright, Peter. This is fine. You're gonna be fine." He tucks one arm under the kid's shoulders and the other under his knees, then lifts his scrawny, overheated form with surprising ease. "You are gonna be just. Fine. And if you're not, and I have to call _Stark_ , then I will never ever forgive you for as long as I live because that man-" He takes a deep breath as he carefully works his way through the doorway, avoiding hitting Spider-Kid's head on the doorframe. "-is _insufferable_. He already gave me enough shit for Katie, I don't even want to know what he'd have to say about you. And he'd no doubt ignore the fact that I don't even have anything to do with you, other than that you landed on my roof." He squeezes into the bathroom, barely managing to fit inside with Peter. "K, here we go kid."

With a grunt, he lowers Peter into the bathroom, not caring when the water flows up and over the sides of the tub, splashing onto the floor. He makes sure the kid's head is above the water, and he waits, trying not to let the anxiety eat him up.

"Come on kid," he mutters. "Come on."

He's starting to think he's gonna have to call Stark when Peter suddenly gasps, his eyes flying open, hands gripping the edge of the tub as he pulls himself up out of the water.

" _Whathehell?"_ he sputters. His eyes are wide and wild with confusion, and Clint can see him tensing for a fight.

"Whoa! Hey! It's me, remember? Clint Barton. Hawkeye!"

"Hawkeye?" Peter repeats. He relaxes somewhat, though he still looks a little startled. "Why-why am I in your-" He looks around. "-bath?"

"How do you feel?" Clint asks, pressing a hand to Peter's forehead.

Peter frowns at him and tries to duck away. "Wet," he says.

"You don't feel as hot," Clint says, relief flooding him as he realizes that Spider-Kid probably isn't going to die here. "You had a pretty high fever there a minute ago. You probably shouldn't be swinging around in sweats in this heat wave. Really, how do you feel?"

Peter looks around the small bathroom, then at Clint, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead and his eyes comically wide. "...Confused, mostly. I remember being on the roof, and then…" His eyes grow, somehow. "Did I faint on your couch?"

Clint lets out a laugh. "Uh, yeah. Sort of. Look, I've got some sweats and a t-shirt you could borrow since your clothes are...you know. Sopping."

Peter nods. "Yes, please."

Clint goes to his room and grabs a change of clothes, and a towel from the hall closet, and takes them to Peter. "Here," he says, setting them down on the toilet and closing the bathroom door behind him. He knocks on the door and calls, "Come out to the living room once you're done."

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and walks to his couch, plopping down with a sigh. "Stan?"

" _He's not dead, is he?"_

"No, he's not dead. In fact, he seems to be doing fine, now. I'm sending him home in a cab as soon as he's changed. You're not calling Stark, are you?"

" _He's really okay?"_

"He's really okay. It worked just like said it would."

Stan mumbles something that Clint doesn't hear then says, " _I won't tell him. But if this somehow gets back to him, I'm denying any involvement."_

"Thank you, Stan. I owe you one."

" _Damn right you do."_ He hangs up without saying goodbye.

Peter comes out a second later. Clint's shirt is baggy on him, and he's got the pant legs rolled up and his half-dried hair is sticking up in every direction. It makes him look even younger than he already did, and Clint finds himself again wondering what in the hell this kid is doing fighting crime.

"Thanks," Peter says, rubbing one hand on the back of his head. "Sorry for causing you trouble."

Clint shrugs. "No more trouble than I'm used to." He grabs his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out a few bills. "Here," he says, pressing them into Peter's hand.

Peter shakes his head. "No, I can't take this Mr. Hawkeye."

"You're not walking him, kid. Not in this heat. And especially not after what just happened."

"I can't-"

"Look," Clint interrupts, holding up a hand. "Spider-Kid."

"Spider- _Man_ ," the kid grumbles. A glare from Clint shuts him up.

"Spider-Kid. Like it or not, you landing on my roof made me responsible for you. So catch a cab. Go _home_. And take a rest."

Peter's face falls. He looks down at the floor, his expression becoming almost shy. When he talks, there's a poutiness to his voice that might be annoying if it weren't so endearing. "But there's bad guys out there, 'n I can stop them. But not if I'm _resting_."

"And not if your brain is scrambled. Even superheroes need rests, kid."

Peter looks at him. Clint fixes him with a stern stare until Peter deflates. "Uuuugh. _Fine_."

"Good," Clint says. "And one more thing. If anyone asks? We've never met. Got it?"

Peter nods, hair flopping. "Yes sir, Mr. Hawkeye. Thank you."

Clint walks him to the door. Before he opens it, he says, "If you ever find yourself in Brooklyn again and you need a rest, or, you know...back up. You know where to find me."

Peter smiles. "Thanks."

Clint ushers him out, then shuts the door behind him.

Kids are more trouble than they're worth, he decides.

With any luck, that's the last time he'll cross paths with Spider-Kid.

xxx


End file.
